


For the Greater Good

by Amonae



Category: Captain America (Movies), Marvel, Marvel Cinematic Universe, The Avengers (Marvel Movies)
Genre: A whole lot of angst, Alternate Timeline, Angst, Blood, Canon Divergence - Captain America: Civil War (Movie), Gen, Not A Happy Ending, Violence, but a hopeful ending, implied pre-relationship Steve/Tony, seriously i warned you
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-05-31
Updated: 2017-05-31
Packaged: 2018-11-07 07:16:42
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 5
Words: 18,767
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11054007
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Amonae/pseuds/Amonae
Summary: What the Hell is Tony even thinking with all of this? They could have talked about it first—as a team—could have weighed the pros and cons before coming to a decision and facing up to the United Nations. Instead, they’re picking sides as though arguing over baseball teams.Christ.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * For [ranoutofrun](https://archiveofourown.org/users/ranoutofrun/gifts).



> First off, I know that I’m probably going to get a bit of flack with this one—comes with the territory of a CA:CW fic. However, I’d like to say right off the bat: if you don’t like it, please don’t read. No one is making you. :)
> 
> Thank you so much to [dapperanachronism](https://archiveofourown.org/users/dapperanachronism), [antigrav_vector](https://archiveofourown.org/users/antigrav_vector), and [robin_tcj](https://archiveofourown.org/users/robin_tcj) for helping to keep this thing on track and for wrangling all my misguided and wayward ideas. Without you, this would very likely be a pile of errors and vague attempts to be clever.
> 
> Written for the Cap-RBB 2017. Artwork is by the amazing [ranoutofrun](https://archiveofourown.org/users/ranoutofrun). You can also find the artwork [here](http://archiveofourown.org/works/11051637/chapters/24638613).
> 
> The title is pulled from “For the Greater Good of God” by Iron Maiden.

She’s gone.

And he’d found out through a text. A _text_. 

Steve would laugh, if it weren’t so damn indicative of the direction his life seemed to be going. Everything is spiralling out of control, maybe it has been since the moment he woke on this side of the century. Maybe he wasn’t meant to wake up. 

It isn’t the first time he’s thought it.

The thickly-bound document feels heavier in his hands than it had only seconds before, feels like it’s searing his flesh through the pages, through the thousands of words that are sure to be the end of them. Tony thinks it will save them, will help to keep them out of the media spotlight, keep them off the public’s radar. To Steve, it feels too much like restriction, too much like a leash forced upon them.

He can’t do this. Not now. 

“I have to go,” Steve rasps, feeling his throat closing up, his breath coming quick and shallow.

The pain hits him so suddenly, so hard it makes his vision swim with the force of it. His chest _burns_ at the memory of her smile—sharp and teasing on the good days, soft and politely confused on the bad. Knowing it was coming doesn’t make it easier. Doesn’t make it any simpler to know that the last link he’d had to his past was gone. And Lord, had he known. He’d known every time the nurses watched him leave, their features placid but their eyes saying everything their painted lips didn’t. That Peggy was going, that she didn’t have much time. Even with that knowledge, it doesn’t hurt any less, doesn’t make Steve feel any less likely to punch a hole through a wall before his grief punches a hole through his chest. 

Knowing doesn’t make it any better than the swift loss he’d faced with Bucky on the train. 

But Bucky is out there. Somewhere. Alive, he hopes. It might not be _his_ Bucky, not the way Steve remembers him, but some form of him is still out there, in the world. The thought sends him reeling, makes him wonder why there hasn’t been any contact, makes him think that maybe Bucky doesn’t _want_ to be found.

Steve barely makes it to the stairwell before the swelling ache in his chest becomes unbearable. Pulling air into his lungs takes so much effort, feels so much like _before_ that he has to look down at his hands, remind himself he isn’t that skinny, sick kid from Brooklyn anymore. That he can breathe if he needs to, he doesn’t have to struggle for it.

His hands are shaking. 

Steve sweeps one through his hair quickly before it finds its way to the metal railing. It’s cool beneath his touch, grounding. Something solid when he feels like he is adrift, lost under an ocean of ice-cold water. He feels out of his element, off his game, unable to protect his team and those they swore to protect in turn. There are so many things wrong with the Accords, so many things that could send them spiralling back into a situation like they’d had with SHIELD. 

Steve never wants a repeat of that chain of events, even if it had let him find Bucky again. Let him know, for only a moment, that he’s alive. That part of his past is still out there, that it hadn’t all been lost to the waves of time.

And God, Bucky. What will happen to him in all of this? Will they hunt him down like a common criminal? Lock him up for life? Or take him to one of the few states that still allowed the death penalty to pass? Steve tightens his fingers, feeling the nails on his left hand dig viciously into his palm.

What the hell is Tony even _thinking_ with all of this? They could have talked about it first—as a team—could have weighed the pros and cons before coming to a decision and facing up to the United Nations. Instead, they’re picking sides as though arguing over baseball teams.

_Christ._

Steve palms his face, not surprised to find that his hand comes back damp. He takes a deep breath, trying to center himself, to find some semblance of calm among the storm. When he manages to control the swelling ache in his chest, the rapid thunder of his heartbeat, and the rasping sound of his breath coming too-fast, Steve pries his hand from the railing and continues down the stairwell. He doesn’t look back to the deep indentations he knows he left in the steel.

\------

Steve wasn’t going to like it.

Tony knew, inherently, that Steve wasn’t going to like a damn thing about the Accords. He knew the exact twitch of Steve’s jaw that meant he was clenching his teeth. He knew Steve would try to bull-headedly dodge every attempt at the logical conclusion that Tony was offering to him, to them, to the team. 

He knew Steve wouldn’t agree to it.

But Tony also knew they had very few options on their table, not with SHIELD burrowed so deep underground that even Friday’s attempts to track them down had been in vain. And out of everything they could feasibly try instead—becoming a vigilante group of powered heroes wasn’t high up on Tony’s list, he’s seen what becomes of those—this is their best option. Not a great option, but in the face of the alternatives… Tony is willing to try, to make his best attempt to convince Steve that this is what they need to do. This is their best plan of attack.

It went about as well as he could have expected.

Steve hadn’t even made more than a passing comment before abandoning the Accords on the coffee table and slipping from the room. Tony tried to catch his eye on the way past, to ask where Steve was going without asking where he was going. 

It didn’t work.

Three hours and twenty-six minutes.

That’s the longest Tony can allow Steve to avoid him, to avoid the issue. They need to discuss it, whether it’s the right time for it or not. He knows Steve will tell him ‘later,’ will look at him with that pleading gaze, and normally Tony would abide by it, would leave Steve to his thoughts and his processes and his feelings. But he can’t, not now, not with this. After all, the timeline is out of his control—they don’t have the luxury of waiting until the whole team has gone over every word, every clause, every inch of fine print. It needs to be dealt with. Immediately.

Tony finds Steve in his room, rifling through his drawers and slamming clothes into a military-issued duffle bag with more force than required. They don’t speak, it isn’t necessary. Everything they need to say to one another in the moment would take too long, use up too much time. Yet every second passing in silence is another they can’t afford to waste. Their time is limited. It’s not going to be up to them for much longer, the choice will happen with or without them. A decision has to be made.

Tony watches the stiff arch of Steve’s spine, the tension curling tight between his shoulders, that familiar clench of his jaw. Every inch of his muscled frame is broadcasting ‘go away’ and ‘leave me alone,’ but Tony can’t.

“Steve,” Tony tries, his fingers toying with the edge of his shirtsleeves, giving his hands something to do, something to occupy at least a portion of his attention. He freezes as Steve pauses in his movements, just for a fraction of a second, before slamming another pair of socks into the bag.

“Not now, Tony,” Steve answers brusquely, his voice short and clipped enough to make Tony want to flinch away from it, to bring up his guards, retort in kind. He has to force himself to breathe calmly, to re-evaluate his approach before speaking again. 

“It really is the best option,” he tries to wrangle his tone, to convey an easy off-handedness that he doesn’t really feel. Judging by the subtle lilt of Steve’s brow, he doesn’t manage it. Tony lowers his eyes to stare at the whorls in the carpeting instead. _Count to ten. Take a breath._ “Look, it’s just a safety measure. It’s a way to provide some accountability for our actions, to make sure that something like Lagos doesn’t happen again.”

“A safety measure?” Steve barks. Tony hears the soft thud of the duffle bag hitting the floor. “How about we keep accountable for our own actions, not go running to the next group who wants to leash us to words and boundaries and somebody else’s motivations? After all, it went _so_ well the last time.”

Tony frowns, abandoning his in-depth examination of the carpeting in favor of narrowing his eyes and flicking his gaze to meet Steve’s. Steve is just as angry, his hands clenched at his side and his face taking on that ruddy hue it gets when he’s about to start yelling. It just makes Tony feel more pissed. “And you think we can get away without this? You think they’ll just _let_ the Avengers carry on as though we’re not a group of vigilantes?”

“The safest hands are–”

“–still our own. I _get_ that, Steve. I really do. But they’re not going to give us that kind of freedom. They _shouldn’t_ give us that kind of freedom.” 

Steve’s back stiffens, his brow furrowing, marring his forehead with rivers and valleys. “We shouldn’t have the freedom to make our own choices. Really? _Really_ , Tony?”

“I’m not saying that!” Tony snaps, unable to keep his own anger, his own indignation over the whole situation under restraint any longer. “I’m saying maybe we shouldn’t be the only ones making the kinds of call that affect, oh, I don’t know, an entire fucking country?”

“So you’re saying the next time that somebody decides they’ve got the right idea for ruling humanity, the next time an alien race takes to the streets, we should just call up the UN and ask them if we can pretty please have permission to deal with the situation?”

There’s a crack in the room, something breaking in the silence between breaths. Tony’s eyes flick to Steve’s fingers, curled into a fist around what _used_ to be his toothbrush. Steve follows Tony’s gaze and frowns as he loosens his grip, letting a cascade of plastic splinters scatter across the floor.

Tony heaves a sigh, hard and heavy in his chest. “Wake up, Steve. They’ll hunt us down, just like they’re going to do with Barnes.” That is the wrong thing to say. The second the words leave his mouth, Tony knows they’re the wrong ones. He can see the way that Steve’s face changes, the way his features fluctuat from a sharp, pained shock to something small and hurt before flashing right over to anger. “Steve, I–”

That’s it, then. Steve isn’t going to agree, isn’t going to consider this. He’s beelining straight for the alternative path. He had been all along, Tony just hadn’t wanted to see it. They are standing on opposite sides of a very clear line, and Steve had been busy building up a wall while Tony was waving his hands and trying to talk his way through it. 

Tony doesn’t have the time to make amends, to bridge the gap he’s just created—or is it increased, at this point? Tony can’t tell—between them. Steve is already pulling his duffle off the ground and heading into the elevator. The doors close on the sharp line of his shoulders, muscles shaking softly. 

Tony’s really put his foot in it this time. 

With a quiet sigh, Tony ignores the trembling in his own hands, moving across the room to close the drawers that Steve had left open in his haste to get out of there. They’ve been practically cleared out, only a few worn tee shirts and bits of paper and charcoal left behind. Tony’s fingers are on the handle for the top drawer, the one where Steve keeps art supplies and other personal items he doesn’t want lying around in the open. It’s private, and Tony knows he shouldn’t look, but his gaze stops on one of the drawings and he finds himself pulling the drawer open instead of pushing it closed.

His stomach clenches, squeezing painfully tight as he looks over the soft lines of charcoal, showing in intricate detail its subject. Tony, hunching over what looks like repairs on the repulsor gauntlet—maybe after that time with the giant lizards in Central Park—an intense expression of concentration on his face. Every stroke has been drawn with a fluid precision that captures a whole lot more than just a portrait. 

Tony swallows around the lump in his throat and closes the drawer.

“Friday? Bring up the Accords again. See if there’s any way we can–”

“Sir, I believe you already know the answer to that. You’ve been over them several times already.”

“Just do it,” Tony grumbles, scrubbing a hand across his face before he pulls out his phone. His fingers flick across the screen with a practiced ease while he debates the algorithms he’d built into Friday’s system. Maybe next time he’ll program his AI with less personality, less ability to sass him. 

“Yes, sir.”

Within seconds, Steve’s room is filled with a soft glow, images projecting through Tony’s phone which is laying flat on his palms as he moves. He walks between the images, lip caught between his teeth as he tries to find something, anything, to give him a bit of wiggle room.

The pages hover before him in the bedroom, tinged blue-green from the projections, lines upon lines of clauses and conditions that interlock with one another so tightly that the room between them is practically non-existent. It’s been written to lock them out or rein them in, there’s no median. And for someone like Barnes, on the run and with a river of blood behind him, there isn’t a single erroneous space for his freedom between the dotted lines. 

\------

Sam clutches at his knees as he tries to catch his breath, sweat pouring down his spine, over the crown of his head, getting in his eyes. He brushes the back of his hand across his forehead with frustration before righting himself, taking the rest of his route through the compound at a swift walking pace. His muscles burn, aching with the screaming caution of pushing them too far, of doing too much—but it isn’t enough. He can still feel the crawling itch of nerves, the sick swell of reality sinking in.

_God damn it, Tony._

They’ve already been blindsided. All of them except Tony; he’d sat through that meeting as though he’d already heard everything. Hell, he probably had. Tony probably knew exactly what kind of shit was about to get thrown in their general direction and didn’t do a damn thing about it. Didn’t think to protect, or even warn, the people that were on his team. That thought sets rage boiling through Sam’s veins again and he has to stop, has to place his palms against the nearest wall and lean heavily against them, the muscles in his arms standing at attention from the tension the position puts on them. He breathes deep— _one, two, three_ —while staring at the bland, slate gray paint that Tony had probably picked out himself.

Sam kind of wants to put a hole through it. 

“Get a grip, Wilson,” he mumbles, shoving off the wall and turning on his heel, fully intending to go cool off in his room. Instead, Sam nearly jumps out of his skin when he turns and finds himself less than two feet away from Natasha. Her brow is arched in a perfect curve, the rest of her face as passive as always.

“Talking to yourself now?” she asks, arms folded across her chest and hip cocked to the side. Sam has been around her long enough now to know that the whole posture is a ruse, a way to make her seem calm and composed—even when she isn’t.

“Jesus, Natasha. Warn a guy, would ya?” Sam takes half a step back, just to feel like he isn’t being examined like a bug under a microscope. “What did you need?”

There’s a pause, not long enough to be substantial, but long enough that Sam knows it means something. Something more than casual conversation. “Nothing. Just checking in. How are you doing?”

Sam frowns. This is some psychoanalytical bullshit if he’s ever seen it, and he has. Up close and personal. He just isn’t used to seeing it directed his way. “...fine,” he answers, cautious. Natasha is playing at something, but he isn’t about to find out what it is, not until she’s damn ready for the reveal.

“Good, good,” she says, her tone indicating she scarcely cares what his response had been. Natasha uncrosses her arms, taking a moment to shift some scarlet hair behind an ear before stepping forward, moving to walk past Sam and further into the corridors. She pauses, just at his side, so they stand shoulder-to-shoulder in a passage that has more than enough room for both of them. There’s a brief silence, the air heavy while Sam waits for whatever anvil is about to fall. 

He doesn’t expect the next words out of her mouth to be, “just… take care of Steve, alright?”

That sets off a series of alarm bells in Sam’s head, though he can’t do much more than crinkle his brow and stare at her profile. “O...kay…?”

Natasha’s lips quirk at the corner, just for a second, before she’s moving again. “Good,” she whispers, her voice soft. “Someone has to.” Her heels click down the hall and Sam vaguely wonders why he didn’t hear them the first time. 

\------ 

Tony isn’t sure how many hours have passed, isn’t sure he wants to know. It’s been long enough that the coffee pot is long-since empty and there’s a slight twinge at the corner of his vision. He ignores it.

“Friday, bring up clause sixty-three again, sub-section C. There might be some way we can work around–”

“Sir?” Friday’s voice cuts through his train of thought, clipped and precise. “I believe you’ll want to have a look at the news.”

“The news?” Tony asks, frowning. “We don’t have time for the news. Pull up clause–”

He doesn’t get to finish his sentence before Friday is filling the nearest screen with images of smoke and fire, flames spiralling out of control in a glass-walled building that looked an awful lot like…

“The clean-up continues today in Austria, where only hours ago, a bomb appears to have gone off at the Vienna International Centre, causing massive amounts of damage. The number of victims is as of yet unknown, but among them is King T’Chaka of Wakanda. A great loss for the people of Wakanda, especially during a time where their only goal was peace.” 

Tony holds his breath as the newscaster drones on, waiting for the other shoe to drop, for them to show a flash of blond on the screen–

But no, that isn’t right. Steve is in London, he wouldn’t be anywhere near this mess. He would be safe. He would be–

“This just in—a suspect has been confirmed in the attacks on the International Centre. Local surveillance monitors picked up the visuals of one James Buchanan Barnes, better known as the Winter Soldier, exiting the premises just before the first charge goes off. There is a city-wide manhunt, and anyone with information regarding the Winter Soldier is urged to call–”

_Fuck._

Tony is off his workbench and halfway across the room to the armor before he realizes the issue.

“Sir?” Friday prompts, sounding very much like she’s been calling out to him for some time now.

Tony heaves a sigh and scrapes a hand through his beard. “Yeah, yeah, I know. I can’t just…” Can’t just run off in the Iron Man armor whenever he pleases, unless he wants to break every law he’d just helped to put in place. After a quick re-evaluation, he turns back toward the bench, leaning his palms on the smooth surface and turning his attention to the screens. One is still broadcasting the same series of shaky, cell phone video captures in a never-ending loop. “Friday, call up Secretary Ross. Let’s find out what we can about this situation.”

As the dial tone carries out, Tony scratches at his chest, resisting the urge to tap a nervous rhythm against a surface that is no longer there.


	2. Chapter 2

Steve is pissed.

Though, pissed may be an understatement. He hasn’t said a damn word since Tony entered the small, glass room that had once been used for conferences. Now, apparently, they’re using it to house those who are hovering on the verge of being arrested. Tony had barely managed to twist Ross’s arm on the matter, insisting that the media would go into an absolute frenzy if they arrested Captain America. It’s true, to a degree.

It doesn’t matter to Tony if Steve is pissed. He’s _wrong_. If anything, this little exercise in being on the run—and failing miserably, mind you—has proved that. But Steve still sits immobile and silent, glaring daggers into the wall just over the shoulder of Tony’s crisp suit.

Frankly, it’s starting to piss Tony off.

As Tony clears his throat, he watches the muscle in Steve’s jaw twitch, the way it does when he’s clenching his teeth—when he’s trying hard not to say something he’ll regret. 

“Steve,” Tony starts, keeping his tone even, soft. He opens his mouth to continue and frowns, snapping it shut again. For once, he doesn’t know where to start with this. If he starts with the Accords, basically shoving an ‘I told you so’ down Steve’s throat from the get-go, it will get them nowhere. He has to be cautious about how he words this, has to think through each of his actions and phrases before they even leave his lips.

Steve starts speaking before Tony has the chance to sort out his jumble of thoughts.

“We formed the Avengers to protect people, to go where others couldn’t, do things that the police or government organizations were unable to do,” Steve’s voice is a hard rasp in the still room, his gaze still fixed just shy of actually looking at Tony. “How are we supposed to do that, if someone else is calling the shots?”

Tony huffs out a breath, already feeling irritated with the cyclical nature of this argument. They aren’t going to get anywhere if Steve continually insists on being stubborn. “No one else is calling the shots, Steve. We still make the decisions, at the end of the day.”

“Yeah?” Steve asks, his voice holding that cynical tone of disbelief it gets whenever he’s about to be a little shit about something. Normally, that tone precedes some dry witted remark that nearly sends Tony into peals of laughter. Somehow, he doesn’t think that’s going to be the case here. “I don’t think that’s what we normally mean by ‘suit up.’” Steve jerks his head toward Tony’s Armani.

It’s an attempt to rile him. That’s all it is. Steve is trying to get a reaction, to make him angry, to get Tony to admit that he’s the one that’s wrong. Like Hell that’s going to happen. “The situation didn’t call for it,” he states blandly, flicking a bit of non-existent lint from the sleeve of his suit, which has been called into such unnecessary attention. 

Steve’s gaze slides to him then, his head barely moving with the change. There is so little motion that Tony finds himself startling when he looks up and into those baby blues. Steve’s lips are curled into a smile, but it doesn’t reach his eyes, is twisted and tainted with something that makes Tony want to look away. He doesn’t.

“I’m sure Pepper will be very happy with your decision.”

Tony freezes, pinned by Steve’s less-than-kind gaze and the weight of his words.

_Low blow, Rogers._

Steve knows that Tony and Pepper have been on the outs, for the better part of a year. Steve _knows_ because Tony had told him, halfway to weeping after one glass too many during a late night at the compound. Steve knows because Tony had confided in him, and here he is, throwing it right back in his face like a weapon. Tony’s pulse thunders in his chest and for a moment, he panics about miniscule slivers of shrapnel, about death inching its way slowly toward his heart. It takes him far too long to remember he doesn’t have to worry about that anymore. 

Forcing a tight-lipped smile to his face, Tony keeps staring Steve down, refusing to be the first to give, to back down from this. If they’re bringing low blows into the conversation, Tony can throw them back just as easily. He’s somewhat of an expert. “Yeah. I’m sure she’ll love it. Keeps the stocks up when I’m not plastered all over the evening news. Can’t say as much for Barnes, though. He’s _quite_ the celebrity lately.”

Tony doesn’t have to strain himself to maintain his hard smile when he sees Steve’s eyes quickly slide away, his gaze lowering to where his hands are clenched between his knees. His knuckles are white as he speaks, voice low and careful. “That wasn’t him.”

“Right. And I’m not Iron Man.”

“That wasn’t him!” Steve shouts, his attention snapping back up to Tony’s face. Steve’s cheeks are blotchy, angry patches of crimson scattered over his fair skin. His eyes are narrowed to slits and in this infinitesimally small moment, Tony can see with startling clarity that this is the line Steve has drawn in the sand. This is the thing he will die over, if he needs to.

Fucking _James Buchanan Barnes_.

Tony takes a breath, closes his eyes and tilts his head to the side for a moment before shaking it slowly. When he opens his eyes again to look at Steve, his voice is calm, lacking in anything that could be classified as emotive. “You’re really going to drop everything, _everything_ we’ve worked toward, everything we’ve created… for him?”

Steve remains quiet, holding Tony’s gaze for only a moment before glancing back to his clenched hands. His silence is enough of an answer for Tony.

“You’re throwing it all away. You know that, don’t you? You’re putting people at risk, good people, _our people_ for someone who might not even be who you think they are. It’s a fool’s errand, Steve.”

There’s a shudder, a tightness that grips at Steve’s frame for an instant before it’s gone. “I have to, Tony.”

Tony wants to say that he doesn’t, that Steve doesn’t have to give everything up for the ghost of a former friend, but he can’t. He can’t find the energy to argue this point, not when he knows it would end the way it always has when it comes to Bucky. “Fine. When you’ve come to your senses, you know where to find me.” Tony stoops to pick up his briefcase, where he’d abandoned it at the end of the table, and pulls out the thickly-bound document. It feels heavier here, in the stagnant air of this room, where everything is changing all at once and too fast. He stares at it for a beat before tossing it onto the table, watching it slide all the way across to where Steve is sitting, still staring stubbornly at his clasped hands.

“Clause sixty-three. Subsection C,” Tony says stiffly, not waiting around to see if Steve can be bothered to lift his head long enough to read it, to see what Tony had tried to bury there. It hasn’t been approved, not yet, but the evidence is there. Tony is _trying_.

Now it’s up to Steve.

\------

The lights are too fucking bright.

Bucky lets his head hang limp, hair shielding him from a portion of the damn spot they seem insistent on directing at his little box. He’s been waiting for three hours and twenty-nine minutes. Three hours and twenty-nine minutes since he’d given himself up to whatever fucking organization this was. Government, for sure. Suits and armored vests wherever he can catch a glimpse. No red badges or tentacles, but Bucky knows that counts for jack shit at the end of the day.

But Steve trusts them. So Bucky let himself be caught, let them lock him in this damn contraption, and now they’re sending someone to “assess” him. That’s bound to go well.

He’s just about had enough of counting the bolts he can see within his limited range of motion when the door across the room finally re-opens. Bucky can’t remember ever seeing a shrink, so he isn’t sure what he'd been expecting, but the middle-aged woman in a dumpy sweater and a pair of ill-suited glasses hadn't been it.

“James? My name is Miriam. Is it alright if I ask you a few questions?”

There’s something off about her voice. Bucky can’t place it, but he doesn’t trust her, either. His mind chases itself in circles while he tries to remember if he’d heard her speak before, if sometime in that other life he’d listened to the cadence of her voice. 

“We’ll start with something easy. Do you know today’s date, James?”

There is a long moment of silence while Bucky takes his time to puzzle through her words, through the lilt of her voice he could swear he’s heard before. It’s irrational, he knows, but his mind sticks to the last word from her mouth, instead of any of the others.

“...Bucky,” he mumbles, feeling the fingers of his flesh hand twitch in irritation. 

The woman pauses, only a moment, but it’s enough for Bucky to sense some hesitation. Some kind of flaw behind her mask. “I’m sorry?”

His mouth is dry. Why is his mouth so fucking dry? “My name. It’s Bucky.” His tongue darts out to try and wet his lips but he feels like it only makes everything that much worse. He can’t seem to catch a full breath, can’t meet this woman in the eye.

“Right, well. I’ll make a note in your charts. We can take things slowly, for now. Make sure you feel at ease before we get to the hard stuff,” she chimes in, twisting her wrist to catch a glimpse of the small, delicate watch face resting just against her pulse point. Even from across the room, Bucky can see the intricate workings on the band. It doesn’t match her outfit. His brow furrows as warnings start to coil in his nerves, tensing his muscles and making him feel like his only options are fight or flight. Something is wrong. Something is wrong and Steve will have no idea, will have no way of coming to his aid.

Bucky’s not even sure, at this point, when he will see Steve again. _If_ he will see Steve again. Bucky is just talking himself down from the oncoming rush of panic when everything goes from bad to worse.

The power goes out.

For a second, everything is dark, until the hum of the backup generators start, allowing a few scarce security lights to illuminate the space. A single red bulb blinks on and off, casting an eerie glow throughout the room. Bucky can feel the cuffs around his wrists and upper arms loosen, no longer held tight to his skin by a pressurized system. An electric system, apparently. He can probably break out of them, if he needs to.

“Ah.” The sound is sharp, the woman’s tone different than it had been before. “It’s about time, I was starting to wonder if something went wrong.” She’s calm as she shifts to pull something from her briefcase, something small and bound. A book? Bucky is so focused on the book, on trying to parse the details on the cover in the dim light, that he barely notices she’s stepping closer, that she’s starting to read.

“желание.”

_No._

Bucky feels his whole body coil and retract, a snake rearing back as a warning, a viper poised to strike. His attention flicks up to her in an instant, eyes wide. “No.”

“ржaвый.”

_Nononononono._

“Stop,” he rasps, voice not even sounding like his own as it skates across his lips. He’s trembling, he can feel it in the curve of his knees and the ends of his fingers.

“Семнадцать. Рассвет.”

He gives up on trying to talk her out of it, on trying to stop her with his own useless words. His body moves on its own accord. He hears metal hitting the floor of his tiny cage. The cuffs and restraints are easy, but the walls of this stupid box…

“Печь. Девять. добросердечный.”

Bucky slams his metal fist into the clear surface, again, again, again until spiderweb fractures start to skitter out from each resounding connection. He can feel his mind slipping away from him, feel his vision and his thoughts getting hazier with each new phrase. The panic rises in equal measure until the only word left in his mind, the only thing he can hear screaming inside his skull is _**run**_.

“возвращение на родину. Один. грузовой вагон.”

The door to his small cell flies off its hinges, and the screaming stops. 

He had been screaming. Why had he been screaming?

“Soldier?” There is a woman—his handler?—peering curiously at him from a few feet away. She is unsure, requesting assurance that he is prepared. He stands, shoulder back, eyes straight ahead.

“Ready to comply.”

\------

The second the power goes out, the whole compound goes to shit. 

Tony had been partway between the room with Steve and the room where he’d left Natasha and Ross when the hallway went dark. It only lasted an instant before the place was a flurry of activity, people running back and forth and barking orders under the flickering red of the security lights. Tony has his phone out and Friday up and running even as he continues on his way to find Natasha. 

“What’s the damage?” He growls, neatly side-stepping a young cadet who nearly bowls into him in their haste to get to their post.

“Sir, it appears as though the power has been wiped for the entire building. Including the holding chamber.”

“Fuck,” Tony hisses, sliding his phone back into his suit pocket and quickening his pace. He hasn’t seen Natasha, the room where she and Ross had been is empty now, and the flurry of activity around him prevents a clear line of sight in any direction. 

A skittering crash, the screech of metal against metal, and a cacophony of shouting up ahead gives Tony a fairly good idea of where their captive has taken off to. Silently, he curses Steve. He’d been so stupid, so _trusting_. And look where it got them? With the Winter Soldier ripping apart the Joint Counter Terrorist Centre and probably throwing low-level agents through walls. 

Rounding a corner, Tony barely has the time to hide himself behind a concrete column. Barnes is in the middle of the cafeteria, tables and chairs strewn around him, natural light from the skylights above blocking out the irritating flash of the red security light. With a quick glance over his shoulder, Tony affirms that something is off with Barnes—he has that blank look on his face again, that impassive stare that means he’s been given orders, and is following through with them. It means they have their work cut out for them.

_Fucking Hell._

Tony waits for an opening, for the other agents to back away, taking cover of their own before he rolls his sleeve past the band of his watch. His fingers work quickly, sliding over catches and activating a series of triggers and buttons. The lightweight gauntlet spirals out from the watch band and wraps snug around his wrist and fingers. It doesn’t have a lot of power, can’t have a hope in hell of taking Barnes down, but it might buy them some time. 

With one last glance at his weapon, Tony pushes off the column, holding his hand in front of him and firing a quick blast to get the Soldier’s attention away from the other agents. The gauntlet isn’t designed to be lethal, only to disorient, to distract, so the second blast does what it should and takes the Soldier to his knees. Tony advances, his steps short and quick, and he listens to the whirr of the repulsor recharging itself as he speaks. “Barnes, take it easy. Just stay down.”

The Soldier’s next move is so quick, Tony barely has time to react. His eyes go wide as Barnes lifts his handgun, points it right at Tony’s head. Muscle memory kicks in and Tony has the sense of mind to lift his hand, to grab the barrel of the gun and jerk it away from landing a fatal blow.

There’s a sound, loud and echoing in Tony’s ears, and then something softer, something metal hitting the tile floor—the gun—no, that’s not right. Barnes still has the gun. He’s walking away. He’s…

Tony is barely aware as his knees connect with the floor, his eyes losing focus as he stares at the red and gold hues of the gauntlet, three feet in front of him. 

How did he lose it? Was there a malfunction? Did the locking mechanism get fried when the bullet cut through the metal?

The bullet.

Tony swallows around the thick lump in his throat, the rising tide of bile. The bullet didn’t just go through metal. It couldn’t have. He wasn’t in the armor, he didn’t have the same protection that layers upon layers of shielding afforded him. The bullet didn’t take off only the gauntlet. 

By the time he realizes he’s on his back, Tony is shaking. He forces his body to move, forces his right arm up, up, up until he can see the edge of his white shirtsleeve, stained red and black with gore. He has the sense of mind to clamp his opposite hand around what’s left of his wrist before the scream rips through his throat.


	3. Chapter 3

When the intercoms overhead start blaring warnings and conditions, Sam seriously wonders if his resolve is being tested or something. He manages to catch exactly two words from Natasha before she darts from the room, features twisted downward in a determined scowl. 

“‘Stay here,’” Sam snorts, shaking his head and standing from the rickety metal chair that had been biting him in the ass for the better part of twenty minutes. “Yeah, right. I’ll just stay here and _wait_ for the bad news to come to me.” He doesn’t meet any resistance leaving the room, or as he heads down the hall. Everyone darting past him is too caught up in their own orders, their own concerns to notice that some guy is leisurely jogging through their midst. He catches some buzz about something going down in the cafeteria, so he starts that way, figuring he might wind up running into Steve, and find out what the Hell was going on.

He rounds a corner and immediately knows he’s gone the wrong way. The long hallway in front of him is filled with the blinking red emergency lights, but there’s no other activity. Sam can still hear the bustle behind him, and he makes to turn around, when he sees someone round the bend at the other end of the hallway. He slides back around the corner, peering out just enough to catch a glimpse of dark, tight curls and a short, compact frame. 

_The psychiatrist?_

Sam furrows his brows as he watches the woman calmly make her way across the end of the hall, her briefcase in hand. She isn’t acting like someone who is in the middle of an emergency situation in a high-level government building—she’s acting like someone who has just finished up a particularly boring meeting at some shitty cafe. There’s no concern in her gait, no rush to her movements. Something is up.

“Hey! Do you need some help?” Sam shouts, rounding the corner as though he’s just been passing by. Her eyes flick up to meet his and for a moment, he sees a rise of panic, before she turns and runs the way she’d come. “Shit,” he curses, taking off after her, pushing himself as hard as he can with the unfamiliar halls and the limited visibility offered by dim and blinking lights. 

_Right, left, left, right_ —he keeps pace with her at every corner until they hit the section of the building with windows, where natural light is streaming in from every direction. For a split second, Sam winces against the bright assault, his arm coming up to shield his eyes, and that’s all it takes. She’s gone. He’s lost the trail. 

“Shit,” he snaps again, quickly scanning the open-aired space he’s found himself in for some sign of her. There are tables and chairs, up-ended and tossed around like matchsticks, and at one junction of the room it looks like a vending machine has been thrown clear from one end to the other. Sam is about to pick a direction at random and hope he finds some sign of her again when he smells blood. 

The thick, coppery tang fills his mouth and coats the back of the throat. 

Sure, in the chaos of the room there are bound to be injuries, but this is a _lot_ of blood, enough that someone might not make it out the other side. Sam swears again when he sees the tip of a too-expensive loafer just past one of the upturned tables. He’s moving before he even has time to process the action, his body reacting to his training, to finding someone in distress.

He just hadn’t expected that someone to be Tony Stark.

“MEDIC!” Sam calls out, hoping someone is nearby, someone can hear him. His phone had been confiscated, he doesn’t have a way to call for an ambulance as he assesses the damage before him. A lot of blood. Too much blood. Way, _way_ too much blood. “Hey, Tony? You with me?” Sam asks, trying to keep his voice even, to keep his tone soft, even as he sinks to his knees in a puddle of Stark’s blood.

Tony is clutching his left hand weakly around the wrist of his right, trying to stave off the blood flow as best he can, despite the fact that he’s lost so much by now that he shouldn’t even be conscious. There’s a thin sheen of sweat on Tony’s brow and his eyes are glassy, unfocused as Sam tries to get his attention. “Hey, Tony? Tony?” Sam is slipping off his belt, movements swift and focused, even though he can feel the tips of his fingers trembling. 

“Tony, look at me. Can you do that for me?” Tony’s gaze, fuzzy and drifting, slips toward where Sam is tightening the leather of his belt around the mid-point of Tony’s forearm. “Good, good,” Sam whispers, his lips thinning into a line as he takes a look at the mess of Tony’s wrist. It isn’t a clean cut, isn’t good. And from the amount of blood…

Sam takes a deep breath, holding Tony’s arm up and trying to coax his weakened fingers from their grip. “It’s going to be okay. You don’t have to hold onto it anymore. Just stay with me until medical arrives, okay? You can do that, right?”

A weak nod is all he gets in response, but Sam will take it. It means Tony can still hear him, hasn’t slipped so far into shock that he’s non-responsive. “Good, good.” Sam curses internally, he feels like he’s saying that too much. Especially when it’s so very much _not good_. “It shouldn’t be long now. Someone will be coming. We just have to–”

“–nes.” 

Tony’s voice is so weak, so overwhelmed by the jumble of surrounding activity, that Sam nearly missed it. He leans closer, hoping to make out more than a fraction of a word. “What was that?”

For a moment, nothing follows, just the thick sound of Tony’s breathing. But then, on an exhale, a single word. 

“Barnes.”

Sam’s mouth snaps shut so quick he swears it creates an audible result. He pulls back from Tony, enough to see his face when he asks the next question, to assess how much is delirium and how much is truth. “Tony. Did Bucky do this to you?” 

He doesn’t want to believe it, he’d seen for himself that Barnes was, if not adjusted, at least functioning on his own willpower these days. But Tony is bleeding out on the floor of some shitty cafeteria and _that_ is visual proof that something had happened here, something caused by someone. 

Tony nods, slow and controlled, keeping his eyes on Sam’s the whole time. Sam can see rage in his gaze, a fury that speaks of bad things to come, of violence in the name of vengeance. Tony is sure.

“Shit,” Sam hisses, reeling back a bit more when he hears footsteps come up behind him, quick and calculated.

“Medics are on their way,” Natasha says at his left, her voice a hollow rasp. Sam looks at her, sees the bruises purpling around her neck. She notices him looking and shakes her head. “Get out of here. Steve followed Barnes. Helicopter pad on the west tower.”

Sam frowns. “I’m not leaving Tony,” his voice is hard, stern, brokering no argument as his training urged him to stay put until medical gets there.

“I’ve got him,” Natasha replies, lowering herself to a crouched position beside Sam, her fingers wrapping delicately around the leather of Sam’s belt on Tony’s arm. “Go.”

He lets go of Tony, hesitates. If Bucky did do this, if he’s _gone_ again, Steve is going to be in a world of trouble, as much as any of them were. Bucky had nearly killed him in Washington. Sam didn’t doubt that he would try it again, if someone has given him the right set of orders.

“Be careful,” Sam mumbles as he stands, trying to wipe some of the blood from his hands onto his jeans.

“You too,” Natasha says with a brisk nod, her attention on Tony, who is still staring at Sam over her shoulder. His eyes still full of anger.

With a quick breath, Sam takes off in the direction of the west towers.

\------

Hospitals always had a certain smell to them. Something about the industrial-grade cleaning products they used, or the scent of death that clung to the halls. They were never quiet, never still, so it was easy enough for Natasha to play the part of an inconsolable teammate, refusing to leave Tony’s side from the moment he had gotten out of surgery. During the procedure, she’d managed to inform the rest of the team. More or less. Her call to Steve went straight through to voicemail. It made sense, as his phone was probably still in lock-up back at the Centre. 

The chair she pilfered from the waiting room wasn’t much better than the flimsy plastic thing they provided in the rooms, but at least it had some kind of padding. She sifts through the pages of some gossip magazine, her attention not on the bright pictures or flighty articles but on the smooth cadence of Tony’s breath, waiting for a change. 

He’d been in surgery for hours, and from what Natasha had gleaned from the nurses, there had been no hope for reattachment. The injury had been too rough, too unstable to attempt it, so the doctors made the decision to amputate.

Tony is going to be furious, when he wakes up. 

Her gaze is unfocused on an advertisement for women’s health when she hears the hitch in his breathing, the shifting beneath scratchy hospital blankets. Natasha neatly folds the magazine shut and deposits it behind her on the chair as she leans forward. 

“Tony?” she queries, voice soft, tone appeasing. He might be aggressive, when he first comes to. After all, the last thing he remembers may be him being locked in battle. 

A quiet groan echoes from Tony’s chest as he tries to rise, his body lacking the strength to move more than a few inches before he falls back against the pillows.

“You’ve lost a lot of blood,” Natasha supplies, calm. She waits until he turns his head to her, opens his eyes, before she continues. “Probably best not to try any acrobatics for a bit.”

Tony snorts, but it’s short and sharp. “Right. Where’s–”

“Gone,” she finishes, knowing exactly where he’s going with this, where she would go, were she in his shoes. “We lost them in the chaos. We’re on it, though. Vision is searching with Friday, back at the compound. Rhodes is in the field.”

This appeases Tony somewhat, as she knew the Colonel’s name would. It’s a few moments more before he speaks again. “Them?”

Natasha doesn’t hesitate, doesn’t drop Tony’s gaze as she speaks. “Barnes. Wilson. Rogers.”

Tony flinches at Steve’s name—he’d hoped for a different answer, hoped that Steve wouldn’t have left. Natasha nearly felt sorry for him, but Tony had held too tightly to the hope that Steve would choose him for too long. He needed to wake up. 

Natasha stays quiet while she waits for Tony to process this, leans back in her uncomfortable chair and retrieves the magazine from behind her. She lowers her eyes to the page, but keeps her attention on Tony. Because of this, she can see the exact moment he realizes the extent of the damage.

Tony peels back the sheets where they had been tangled around his right bicep, his fingers shaking softly. He keeps pulling until he reveals the bright white of the bandage, wrapped neatly just below where the radius and ulna meet. They’d had to shave some of the bone down, to forcefully create a cleaner cut, or the whole thing would have festered. 

She hears his harsh intake of breath, takes the window of opportunity to speak, her eyes still poised over the article she hadn't been reading. “There was too much damage to consider the options.”

“...right,” Tony whispers, his voice a hollow rasp of its usual tenor.

“Two days, minimum. Observation,” Natasha intones dryly, repeating the information she'd gathered from the nurses.

“Right,” Tony repeats, opening and closing his mouth a few times, smacking his lips. Natasha passes him a little cup of water with a straw in it from the adjustable tray next to the bed. He reaches, with his right arm, before realizing the error and freezing. He recovers quickly, stifling the quick flare of panic and anguish that had crossed his features. Natasha pretends she didn't see it. They both knew she had.

Tony takes a moment before clearing his throat and reaching for the water with his left hand, grasping it awkwardly. He brings the straw to his lips and with some effort, manages to take a drink. When he lowers the little cup, he stares at it, eyes narrowed. 

“Whatever you need, resources or… whatever. Let me know. I’ll… I’ll do what I can. I want them found.” Tony stares at where his hand is gripping the flimsy plastic cup, where the bit of water left in the bottom wobbles with the vibration from his shaking hand.

Natasha nods and puts the magazine down. “Of course. We’ll keep you in the loop, Tony.”

“And… about Steve?”

“Yes?”

Tony pauses. He stares at the little cup in his hand. In the _wrong_ hand. “Don’t hold back. This is on him as much as it is on Barnes.”

“Got it.”

\------

Somewhere, at the southwest corner of the building, there’s a leak. Steve could hear it, had heard it drip-dripping for the better part of two hours now, and it’s starting to get to him. The constant sound is almost as trying as Sam’s presence at his back, silent, but obviously waiting, upset. Sam hadn’t said much when he’d caught up to Steve and Bucky at the edge of the drainage ditch. He hadn’t done much more than sigh heavily and help haul Bucky’s unconscious body into the nearest vehicle. He’d even driven the stolen SUV while Steve frantically checked for Bucky’s pulse, their soggy clothes ruining the upholstery. 

But Steve had known, from the second they’d met up again, that Sam was brimming with nerves, anxious to talk to him, to say _something_. Steve just didn’t know if he wanted to deal with it. Not right now. Heaving a sigh, he palms his face and keeps his focus on Bucky, unconscious and propped up in a old piece of machinery, as he speaks. “Well?”

There’s a disgruntled sound at his back, a shift of fabric as Sam crosses his arms. “Well, what?”

Steve sighs again. He doesn’t want to play this game. “Well, what is it that you need to tell me? You’re never this quiet.”

“Are you saying I’m loud?” Sam bites back, voice too harsh, too sharp-edged for his normal nature. 

“You know that’s not what I’m saying,” Steve says, shaking his head and sparing a quick look over his shoulder to see that Sam’s not even looking at him, turned away, watching the doors. “What is it you’ve got on your mind?”

“Oh, I don’t know. The fact that we’re probably now wanted across the state, if not the country. Hadn’t exactly planned on becoming a fugitive when I sat down to breakfast this morning, Steve.”

Sam’s words were biting, but that wasn’t what was bothering him. Steve could see the tight lines in his frame quivering as he spoke. Something back at the Terrorist Centre had really bothered him, cut him deeper than he was letting on. Steve frowns. “What happened.” It wasn’t a question, not really, not when he was putting on airs and using the “Captain America” voice. 

There was a moment of relative silence—Steve could still hear the drip-drip-drip of the leaky pipes—before Sam’s shoulders slumped. “He… He hurt a lot of people, Steve.”

Steve swallows around the lump in his throat. “Yeah.” He doesn’t want to think about it. Doesn’t want to think about the people he passed—unconscious or bleeding or… worse.

“He hurt Stark.”

Steve hadn’t been expecting that. He expected the instantaneous reaction of bile creeping up the back of his throat, of his chest squeezing _tight_ , even less. “What?” he rasps, his voice barely audible over the drip-drip-drip.

“He shot him, Steve. Fucking detached his entire hand, for Christ’s sake,” Sam whispers, voice coming fast as he swipes a hand over the crown of his head. “He’s not… we have to turn him in.”

“No,” Steve answers quick, before his mind has the option of processing his words. He knows, without a doubt, that he can’t give Bucky back to those people. Not with what happened, not with what _just happened_.

But _Christ_. 

_Tony_.

“Is he…” Steve couldn’t bring himself to ask, felt he didn’t have the right to ask. Not here, not now, when he’s made his choice.

“Fine,” Sam snarls, his back tight again, shoulders drawn close. “He’s fine. But fuck, Steve. He could have–”

“I know.”

“Do you?” Sam shouts, wheeling around and turning on him then, his eyes narrowed and more vicious than Steve had seen them before. “Do you really know how bad off he was? How much blood he lost? He could have been killed, Steve, and you just want to… to protect his attacker?”

Steve pauses, taking a moment to find his words. He opens his mouth, shuts it again. “He… Bucky didn’t know what he was doing.”

He watches, through a lowered gaze, as Sam throws up his arms and lets out a disgruntled sound. Watches as Sam moves away, pacing the length of the room a few times, before speaking again. “You seriously think that this is the best option?”

“It’s…” Steve stares at his hands, moves his attention to where Bucky is still sitting, limp and unconscious, looking ten years younger in sleep. “It’s the only option, Sam.”

“He needs help, Steve. From the right people.”

Steve knows what Sam is getting at, knows what he means when he says that kind of thing, but he can’t keep himself from rearing back and gritting his teeth together in a tight grind. “I _am_ the right person.”

“Steve, that’s…” Sam pauses, frowns, and shakes his head. “That’s naive. You can’t just expect this to all go away. It’s not just going to disappear, even if you do.”

Steve doesn’t answer him, clenches his hands into fist and turns his gaze back to Bucky’s unconscious form. He can feel Sam behind him, waiting, breathing, silently hoping for an answer that Steve isn’t going to give him. He hears it too when Sam gives up, heaves out a sigh, and turns on his heel. 

Sam leaves, and even though Steve is sitting here, waiting for Bucky to wake up, he’s never felt more alone.

\------

It’s starting to get old, waking up and not knowing where he is.

With a quiet groan, Bucky palms his face with his flesh and blood hand, feeling the grit on his skin smear across his cheeks. He forces his eyes open, trying to focus on the smooth concrete floor. His brows furrow as he attempts to recall the last thing that happened, the last clear memory among a hazy screen of destruction. 

Getting captured, separated from Steve, put in a tiny box and getting a psych evaluation from…

_Oh. Right._

Bucky clenches the fingers of his metal hand into a fist, feeling the tight vice of a clamp around his forearm. He narrows his eyes and glances to the side, seeing the bright metal of his prosthetic trapped in the maw of some sort of industrial equipment. He feels his heart rate spike, skittering out of control in his chest, as he wonders about the possibilities. 

Do they still have him? Is it HYDRA? What happens when they realize he’s not wiped anymore?

His mind reels and swerves, spiralling quickly toward a controlled panic, when he hears someone else speak. There’s someone in the room with him. For a moment, he tenses, until he parses the tone and voice through his wave of fear.

“-ey…? Buck? You with me?”

“Stevie,” Bucky breathes on an exhale, his whole body going limp with the effort. The motion pulls at his shoulder, at the battered array of scar tissue that connects the stump of his left arm to the slick sheen of metal. It hurts, a little, in a way that’s familiar. Overuse. Exertion. 

Steve is talking again, but Bucky’s faded out for part of the conversation, his mind caught somewhere between the _then_ and the _now_. He reins in his attention, diverts his focus to Steve’s face, finds he can’t hold Steve’s gaze. Bucky looks at Steve’s shoes, the battered loafers that should be on a seventy-eight year old man, not some punk from Brooklyn. 

_You used to put newspapers in your shoes._

The thought comes quick, unbidden, and from the silence that permeates the room, Bucky figures he must have said it out loud. His mouth twists in a reflection of a smile as he lifts his gaze to see Steve watching him with a wariness that hadn’t been there before. He must have really fucked up. “Your mom’s name was Sarah,” Bucky rasps, frowning a bit at the sound of his voice, hard and dry.

Something in Steve deflates, then, and Bucky watches the tension leave his shoulders. “Bucky…” 

“What did I do?” Bucky interrupts him, stops Steve from saying whatever placating thing he was about to say. “Did I…” He stops, frowns. Of course he hurt someone, he doesn’t need to ask that. The Soldier nearly _always_ hurt someone, and if they’d managed to escape captivity, well… 

“It wasn’t you,” Steve insists, getting that stubborn look on his face that meant he wasn’t going to move, not on this. Even if it’s a lie. “But we’re… we’re in a bit of hot water right now. What do you remember?”

Bucky nudges the corners of his memory, finds them sharp and unrelenting, frowns. “Not much,” he says, tongue darting out to wet too-dry lips. “There was… a shrink? But she wasn’t really… she had the book. And she knew the words. And…” Bucky pauses, feels his stomach sink as bits and pieces of things drift back to him, too quickly to really grab hold of. He’d been fighting, with the Widow and before that… 

“Stark,” Bucky hisses, remembering flashes of light and pain and blood. So much blood. “Is he…”

“He’s okay,” Steve answers, voice hard, flat. He isn’t looking at Bucky anymore, eyes fixed on a point just above the crown of Bucky’s skull. “He’ll be okay.”

Steve doesn’t sound as sure as he usually does, but Bucky ignores the rising tide of guilt low in his gut to focus on something else. “The woman, she was looking for something. Or… testing something, maybe?” Bucky frowns, pressing the fingers of his free hand to his temple with a hiss of pain. It was important. If it was important, he should be able to remember it.

“Hey, Buck?” Steve’s voice is right near his ear, his hand resting gentle on the curve of Bucky’s shoulder. “It’s okay. Take your time.”

Bucky hates this. Hates feeling useless, like some shell of a person who only keeps the information other people want him to keep. He licks his lips again and forces himself to focus, to narrow down to that moment in his mind, after everything went still and the screaming had stopped. She spoke, then. Before she gave the orders, she spoke a lot. She thought he couldn’t hear her, wouldn’t remember.

But he did.

“She’s looking for the others,” he says, sharp and quick, feeling his eyes widen with the measure of the information. 

Steve’s frowning at him. “The others?”

“Other soldiers,” Bucky provides quickly, the words spilling from his lips in a frenzy, now that he has the push to give them form. “HYDRA soldiers. Like me. There’s… shit there’s at least half a dozen, maybe more, now. Steve, we have to–”

Bucky looks up and meets Steve’s gaze, strong and hard and determined. All at once, he’s pulled back to another time, another place, freezing their asses off behind enemy lines and huddling around a fire for warmth. Steve had looked just as in charge back then, just as sure of himself.

“We will.” Steve stands up, gives Bucky’s shoulder a quick pat before releasing the mechanism that’s keeping his arm captive. He steps back to give Bucky room to stretch the stiff joint, to rotate his arm a few cycles. 

“It’s not going to be a fun trip, Steve. They’re already looking for us.” Bucky grimaces, wondering how many times he’s going to pull Steve into this kind of shit. 

Steve just grins at him, that cocky little smirk that used to drive Bucky up the wall, because it meant he was about to do something really fucking stupid. “Yeah. But I’m with you on this. Til-”

“Til the end of the line,” Bucky finishes, scoffing out an aborted laugh as he shakes his head. “Right. Let’s get a move on then, Cap.”

“You got it.”


	4. Chapter 4

Tony has a piece of medical tape with the words “ **DO NOT TOUCH** ” wrapped across the width of his left wrist, keeping the IV connection securely in place. It had only taken him twice ripping the damn thing out with his teeth and attempting to make a break for his lab before Pepper stormed into his room, slapped the tape on his arm—with more force than strictly necessary—and stationed someone outside of his door at all hours.

Tony had checked. He was pretty sure they didn’t eat. Or sleep. Or take a shit.

She—correction, _he_ —must be paying them really well. 

So he’s been stuck in the same bed for more than 48 hours and at this point, he’s getting tired of running the same scenarios for armor upgrades and bio-encrypted mini missiles, getting tired of scanning through mountains of data from police satellites and security cams. He’s even mostly finished the paperwork he’d been putting off for SI. 

Mostly.

He may or may not also be developing a prosthetic that could rival the Winter Soldier’s arm in terms of technical advancement. 

Maybe.

The ping of an email alert brings his attention back to his mostly-ignored tablet, the screen lighting up and an unfamiliar address crossing the notification. Tony frowns as he pulls the tech toward him, fumbling with it for a moment before balancing the whole thing awkwardly on his lap and tapping at the screen. The email comes up and the furrow between Tony’s brows grows.

“Friday? What’s with the encryption on this one?” There’s an attachment, possibly a virus but looking more like a method of keeping those who aren’t intended to open it, out.

“It appears to be a video file,” Friday’s tinny voice fills the room, echoing strangely through the speakers of his phone on the bedside table. “Shall I run it through the usual methods?”

“Yeah, do that. How long?”

“Approximately three minutes.”

“Good, notify me when it’s done.” Tony sets down the tablet, where it immediately gets lost among the scratchy hospital sheets. He would be irritated, if it hadn’t already happened three times in the last hour. His hand goes for the water glass and he’s most of the way finished with it when his tablet chimes. “Fuck,” he hisses, setting the glass back down before rifling through the blankets. 

Christ, what he would give for normal mobility again.

“What do we have, Friday?” Tony swipes his finger across the screen, bringing up what seems to be surveillance footage from some county road. He has a fleeting moment of exhilaration, thinking that his scans have finally picked up something useful, but the time stamp in the corner of the frame dims that manic excitement to a detached confusion.

He knows that date, knows everything about that date, and wishes he could wipe it from his memory, wipe it from existence. “Who sent this?”

“That is unknown, sir. Shall I continue to look into it?”

“Yes,” he rasps, looking to the hospital door and making sure it is, thankfully, closed. He knows the suits stationed outside could probably listen in if they really felt like it, but most of his mutterings are about alloy compounds and schematics, so he assumes they just tune him out by now. 

Tony takes a breath and presses the small, illuminated ‘play’ button. 

There’s no sound, of course not. From the grainy imagery he can only expect that the technology that captured this was barely able to get a decent picture. Sound would have been out of the question. But he doesn’t need sound to see the 1991 Audi careen off the side of the road, to watch it roll into a lamppost and send an eerie glow across the dim dirt path.

He knows how this plays out, he’s seen the photos, heard the police records. But when a sleek motorcycle pulls up behind the car, Tony feels his heart somewhere in the vicinity of his throat, trying to strangle him with a too-fast rhythm. He’s so focused on the occupants of the car, on trying to squint and catch a glimpse of them that he takes a long time, too long, in making out the features of the motorcyclist. 

_Barnes._

Tony surges forward, upending the small glass of water onto the floor in his haste to get closer to the screen, to zoom in on the image. There’s no doubt in his mind that the man in the video is the Winter Soldier, that the Winter Soldier is approaching the car door and… and…

A renewed pulse of anger ripples through him and Tony sees red. He tracks the video back, watches it through narrowed eyes, but he’s sure. It’s Barnes. There’s no mistaking him for anyone else, no mistaking what he’s done, caught in this recording for anyone to witness. Tony stares at the static that ends the video—after the camera was finally seen and disposed of—and feels his blood boil.

His fingers are moving on his own, pulling up information and codes as his voice commands, hard and sharp, “Friday, start fabrication on version one point two and contact Rhodes. Let him know there’s a change of plan.”

Tony pulls the IV from his left wrist with his teeth, ignoring both the trickle of blood and the blaring of machinery that sets off. He’s halfway through tugging on his clothes when his door finally opens, a few people spilling inside. The nurses and the thugs from outside his door, he’d expected. Natasha, looking grim with her arms folded across his chest, he hadn’t. It makes him freeze up, just for a moment.

They stare at one another, some kind of awkward stalemate, before she speaks. “What’s the plan?”

She doesn’t know what he knows, she _can’t_ know what he knows, but there’s something understanding in her gaze. Tony doesn’t want to know what kind of expression must be on his face in order for her to give in to his side that easily. With a quick glance to the rest of the gathered group, the nurses nervously tittering amongst themselves, he gives a nod to Natasha. “Come on. I’ll explain on the way.”

\------

Even though Tony had explained his thought process—repeatedly, and in great detail—it still isn’t clear exactly what his end goal is. The longer he spends cooped up in his workshop, the more Natasha begins to think it’s less about righting a wrong and more about seeking revenge. She knows, better than most, how that path is bound to turn out.

“Tony?” she calls at the glass barricade, separating Tony’s space from the rest of the world. The front of the workshop is mostly empty—a few in-progress projects scattered across a bench, a beat-up Audi high on a lift—but there’s the flicker of a torch flame near the back, just out of sight of the door she’s waiting at.

After a few moments, the door whooshes open and Natasha goes toward the cacophony of noise with quick, sure steps. She finds Tony precisely where she expected to, hunched over his workbench, a soldering iron clutched in his left hand. “Tony,” she tries again, voice hard.

“What’s up?” Tony’s response is mumbled, his attention entirely focused on whatever gadget he’s fiddling with on the surface of the bench. She’s seen this before, in varying forms, usually after something big happens. Tony will squirrel himself away from people and general human contact, working with only his ‘bots on projects that very rarely see the light of day, all to keep himself isolated. To hide. To prevent the world from seeing the flaws in Tony Stark.

Natasha huffs out a breath and moves to the side of the bench, so she can try to get a glimpse of his face, see what kind of mask he’s put on today. What she sees instead is his project, bright and gleaming, reminiscent of the armor but so, so much worse. She freezes. “Tony,” she tries, cautious, “what is that?”

His attention momentarily diverted, Tony flips off the soldering iron with a flick of his thumb and reaches with his hands— _both_ hands—to slide the goggles off his face. “A prosthetic.”

“A prosthetic,” she answers, voice skeptical. “Tony. That’s a gauntlet.”

“It’s a prototype.”

“It has a repulsor.”

Tony opens his mouth and snaps it shut, his gaze tracking back to where he’s flexing the metallic digits against the edge of the workbench. “Okay, yes. It might… it might have some unorthodox features.”

This isn’t a good direction. Tony’s actions speak of aggression and anger, of revenge instead of justice. He’s going to make a bigger mess than they started with. Natasha angles her brows, curves her lips into a frown. “This isn’t a good idea.”

His features shutter in an instant, going cold and dark. “Oh? And what are our options?” Tony sweeps his hand across the room and a series of projections pop up, glowing white-blue. ATMs, mall security, satellite images all stare back at her. “They’re criminals. And we’ve been tasked with tracking them down. I _will_ track them down.”

Tony’s face is lit with an eerie glow from the projections, his brow furrowed and features speaking of determination, rage. She knows, inherently, that if Tony were given another chance at a killing blow, he would take it, no questions, no hesitation. Natasha gives pause before speaking again. “What about Steve?”

There it is. The weak point. The slightest moment of a fracture in Tony’s facade before his narrowed glare returns. “He’s part of this now, too. He chose his side.”

“That’s true,” Natasha acquiesces, pursing her lips for a moment before speaking again. She needs to phrase this right, to get him to understand what’s at stake, what he might lose. If she doesn’t, if she lets even the slightest hint of her own wariness slip into her tone, he might cut her out of everything, keep her in the dark. She needs to know all the facts with this. “Are you sure that you’ve thought this all the way through?”

Tony doesn’t answer, for a time. The only sound in the room is their breathing, soft and deep. The silence strikes her as strange for a reason she can’t initially place, until the realization comes quick and sharp. There is no music. In the workshop, there was always music. Sometimes quiet but usually blaring and loud enough to be heard from beyond the sealed and locked doors. But now… nothing.

It’s unsettling in a way Natasha hadn’t expected, the same way it’s unsettling when Tony again looks to her, his features a mottled slate of pale blue and white, mouth set in a grim line. “I know what I have to do.”

\------

He knew she wouldn’t understand. In a way, Tony had hoped that of all the people on his side, of everyone helping him to locate and bring in the now-vigilante pair, Natasha would be the one to see his logic. To understand that there is no other way around this. That it has to be done.

She had stood there, quietly assessing in that way she has, while remaining silent. She didn’t say anything before she left the workshop, left him to his last-minute adjustments and overarching plans. 

But she asked about Steve.

Steve, who should be beside him on all this, not off gallivanting and skirting the edge of the law. Steve, who had always done the Right Thing, at least in Tony’s eyes. Steve, who had left him behind to chase ghosts.

Tony nearly skips the soldering iron off the edge of the table, missing the tip of the gauntlet and singeing a sweeping arch over the workbench. He curses and shuts off the tool, slamming it onto the surface with his left hand before flexing the fingers of his right experimentally. 

It isn’t as sensitive as he had hoped, the pressure plates below the surface only allowing for a modicum of feeling when it comes to things like touch, but he can read subtle variances in temperature, can retrieve objects with the once-useless limb. It’s a small achievement, but one he thought he’d never manage again.

Maybe, at some point, he’ll be able to pick up a pen without crushing it into a smattering of tiny plastic shards.

Tony heaves a breath, hates the way it shakes in his lungs. The screen of his phone lights up with yet another notification—Pepper, most likely—and he moves to turn it face-down on the workbench. He’s halfway there with his right hand before he hesitates, drawing it back and using the left instead. No need to ruin perfectly good technology, just because he doesn’t have fine motor control sorted out yet. 

With a twist of his wrist, he examines his handiwork critically. It’s a bit bare-bones, but it’s only the fourth or fifth model—it would take time to get it perfect, time he doesn’t have. The skin where metal meets flesh is stretched pink and raw, scabbing still visible along the seam, aching and sore. He should do something about that, add more ointment or something, but he can’t help watching the way each movement from the artificial hand causes more tension on his skin. Pulling, stretching, _tearing_ …

Tony sucks in a breath, trying to get his train of thought under control, to think of something else, anything else. Anything but cold eyes and quick movements and a pain so searing he’s fairly certain it rivals having a hole cut in your chest in a dank cave in the fucking desert or climbing through a hole in space with a goddamned nuke in your arms and–

Metal screeches against metal, instruments and tools rattling along the surface of the workbench. The noise is so sharp, so jostling, it draws him from his thoughts, at least for now. His breathing is still coming in quick, bright gasps and his heartbeat is completely out of control, but he can see where his hands are gripping the edge of the metal table. He forces himself to count. _Onetwothreefourfivesixseveneightnineten_. Again.

_One, two, three, four…_

The fingers of his flesh hand are pearly white—he slowly encourages them to relax. 

His right hand has crushed the material beneath it to a thin layer, each finger perfectly indented in a series of grooves. Tony doesn’t release it, not at first. He watches the way the workbench has crumpled, has completely caved beneath an artificial limb. He knows he should adjust the levels, work on making it considerably less weaponized.

He can’t bring himself to do it. 

After a series of moments, Tony releases his grip, sucks in a shuddering breath. He pushes back from the workbench, leaves the deep grooves where they are. He could fix it, remove all evidence of the roiling panic, but it’s a reminder of what he has to do.

What he must do.

\------

Sam isn’t sure that he’s ever set foot in the office building segment of Stark tower—certainly not since the whole thing was rebuilt, the giant “A” on the top once again surrounded by “STRK.” A little ostentatious, but he isn’t about to open the conversation with that. 

Frankly, he’s not sure _what_ the Hell he’s going to open with. “Oh hi, Steve has gone off the rails and can’t see reason, can I please convince you to hunt him down _without_ killing the guy that blasted off your hand in close combat?” doesn’t feel a like a good opener. 

He huffs, scrubs a hand over his face. There’s three and a half days of stubble there, hard and scratchy against his palm. Should he have shaved? He probably should have shaved. It’s too late to worry about it, however, as the elevator doors announce his arrival with a soft chime before sliding open. There’s a long hallway to either side, multiple rooms along the way, and a large, empty reception desk made of sleek metal guarding a set of double doors. Sam can see the tiny gold faceplate behind the desk. He takes a deep breath and forces himself to move.

Tony had agreed to this, had set up the meeting on his own turf once he’d been sure that Sam was coming alone. Sam couldn’t help but read into the disappointment he’d caught in Tony’s voice once he confirmed that Steve wasn’t coming along with him. 

As he approaches the door, he makes note of the cameras. Plural, because there are at least three different ones catching varying angles of the door and elevator. Sam would bet there are more that he just can’t see. When he’s only a few steps shy of the ornate doors—now that he’s closer, he can see the intricately carved lines in each panel—they swing open of their own accord. That’s not creepy.

He can see Tony, seated behind a desk even larger than the one out front, leaning back in his seat with his palm outstretched toward Sam. There’s a glow in the center of it. “Come in, Wilson.”

Sam swallows down his nerves, squares his shoulders, and steps inside. The door whisks itself shut behind him, and he’ll be damned if he doesn’t feel trapped right about now. 

“I like what you’ve done with the place,” Sam starts, his tone soft and wary as he stares down the glowing end of a repulsor gauntlet. It takes a moment, possibly a moment too long, to realize that the repulsor isn’t a gauntlet at all, but a prosthetic, clearly attached to the stump where Tony’s right hand used to be. If Sam hadn’t felt like he was in the lion’s den before, well, his opinion on the matter was quickly changing.

He can see the scattered photographs across Tony’s workspace, the series of charts and graphs and data schematics tacked to a board behind him. And the Iron Man helmet, standing sentry on top of the obnoxiously-large desk, is reflecting back a wanted poster with Bucky’s face on it, which Sam must have missed on the way in. Tony’s more than just pissed. He’s downright _furious_ about the whole ordeal.

Tony wastes no time. “What are you doing here?”

Sam had a whole spiel prepared, knew exactly where he was going with this conversation, knew what he wanted to say. All the words have died on his tongue. He’s not happy with the next sentence out of his mouth, but it tumbles forward all the same. “I need your help.”

There’s a silence between them, one Sam would find awkward if he weren’t so focused on the gauntlet still raised toward him. 

And then, like a clash of thunder, the stillness is broken by Tony’s sharp, staccato laughter. It carries on just long enough for Sam to feel uncomfortable before Tony is speaking, his voice hard and amused. “You want _my_ help?”

“Steve’s in over his head,” Sam insists, hoping to play his cards right, to not show his whole hand in a single move. 

But Tony’s already three steps ahead of him. It was a losing game from the start. “Oh, you think? Well, don’t you worry, birdbrain. We’re on it. They’ll be in custody within a week, I guarantee it.”

The unspoken addition of “ _or dead_ ” hangs in the silence between them. 

Sam purses his lips, focuses his attention on his purpose, the reason for coming here. “Let me help you.” _Let me bring them back alive. Let me keep you both from doing something you will regret_.

Tony smiles, but it’s sharp and cruel. “No thanks. Unless you’re going to tell me _exactly_ where they were planning on going–” 

Sam can hear the whirr of the repulsor charging. He grits his teeth.

“–you can get the hell out of my office.”

And there it is. Sam had been worried that Tony would be rash, would be hard to convince. He hadn’t expected him to be completely immovable. Raising his hands in defeat, Sam shakes his head slowly. “Pleasure talking with you, Tony.” He hears the doors slide open behind him, the ping of the elevator. 

“Likewise,” Tony answers, motioning to the exit. 

Sam has never left a meeting so damn fast.

\------

Steve knew their luck was going to run out eventually.

He just hadn’t expected it to be so soon.

When he called an assemble of those were left on his side of this thing, he’d been expecting the need for a distraction, for help diverting airport security elsewhere while he and Bucky got a quinjet out of the hanger. 

What he didn’t expect was for Tony to come flying in, fully prepared for a battle, with his own team of soldiers at his back. It made Steve feel sick. 

But here they are, locked in a clash on the tarmac, and Steve can hear the way his small group is crumbling around him. There isn’t time to finish this here and now. He has to make a call. It’s one he’s not proud of.

“Fall back!” he shouts to be heard through the communicators, over the din of the fight. “Give us some cover and then get the Hell out of here!”

_Language._

Steve clenches his jaw, ignores the way that Tony’s voice filters through his head, unbidden and unwanted. Not here. Not now.

He catches Bucky’s eye as he tosses the shield, knocking War Machine back just enough to give them some leeway. They share a quick nod in the space between them before splitting up and taking their own routes to the hanger. Black Panther is close on Bucky’s tail, and Bucky alternates between high and low ground to try and lose him. But the man is quick, and Steve heaves his shield through a space between two cargo bins to try and shake him from his pursuit. It works, but Steve knows it won’t last long. 

The quinjet is in sight when their paths join again, the Panther right on their heels. Steve can’t help but feel a sense of _right_ with Bucky at his side, where he’s supposed to be, where Steve never thought he would be again. 

He isn’t about to let someone take Bucky away from him. Not again. 

They’re only a few feet from the ramp—why is it already down?—when Steve stops in his tracks, flinging out his arm to halt Bucky as well. He gets a disgruntled look for his efforts, but it doesn’t take long for Bucky to see why Steve had stopped them.

Steve frowns, sparing a quick glance over his shoulder to see that the Panther is nearly on them again, will keep attacking Bucky with that same narrow-sighted anger that has been driving him all along. “Natasha,” he answers, turning his attention back to the jet.

Natasha steps down the ramp, smooth as silk, her widow’s bite raised. “Hello boys.”

\------

Steve looks like shit.

Well, outside of the “I’ve just been in a battle and my once best friend is trying to kill me and my other best friend” kind of looking like shit. Barnes’ attention is squarely directed over his shoulder at T’Challa, who is still hot on their heels. Nice to know where she ranks on the threat totem pole.

“Stand down, Widow,” Steve tries, using his best Captain America voice. It’s sweet that he thinks that will still work.

“No can do, Cap. Got my orders,” she chimes with a quick tilt of her head, seeing Barnes flick his gaze to her for only an instant on the word ‘orders.’ Interesting.

Steve raises his hands, placing the shield in its holster on his back in the process. Natasha knows this won’t slow his reflexes down much in the long run, but it’s a sign of surrender, from him. “We just want to get out of here. Let us leave and this can all stop.”

“You know that’s not true.”

T’Challa is closing in. She’s running out of time. 

“Please, Nat. We have to do this.”

_No, you don’t._

It’s obvious that Steve won’t budge, and neither will Tony. They’re stuck at a crossroads where the outcome isn’t ideal for either of them. If this clash continues, if Tony wins… They’ll both do something they’ll regret for the rest of their lives. But if Natasha lets them go now, there’s no telling when it will cease, how the fighting will stop. There’s no good way for this to end.

“You’re not going to stop.” 

“You know I can’t.”

Natasha sighs. “I’m going to regret this.” She raises her arm and watches the pair in front of her flinch, Steve’s hand automatically going to his shield. At the last second, she adjusts the angle and watches with a calm detachment as T’Challa hits the ground, hard.

She steps down the rest of the ramp as Steve and Barnes share a confused look, lifting her eyes skyward as if praying for strength. “Go. He’s not staying down forever.” Natasha doesn’t watch them leave, doesn’t react when Steve lays a hand on her shoulder and squeezes as they pass her by—a silent thank you in the motion. She hears the whine of the jets and feels the breeze at her back as they depart.

“I’m definitely going to regret this,” she mumbles as she watches T’Challa get himself together, folding his knees and forearms beneath himself as his muscles regain control.


	5. Chapter 5

Prison sucks.

That is, at least, Clint’s humble opinion of the place. Though he might be biased toward open skies and fields with low fences. In need of repair.

Shit. He promised he’d get started on the fencing in the rear fields when he got back. Looks like that project might be delayed a bit.

He knew what he was in for when he signed up for this, knew the risks, knew that it might end up like this. Steve had explained it all, real careful, giving everyone as much room for an out as a person could want. So it wasn’t like he hadn’t known that this was a possible outcome. Really, Clint supposed he should be happy that all Stark did was have them thrown in prison. Could be worse. They could be in a big box at the bottom of the ocean.

Oh. Wait.

Clint’s just about to tell Lang to shut up for the millionth time when the doors to their little prison-pod glide open and the man of the hour himself sidles in. Clint barely resists the urge to flip him the bird.

“So,” Stark starts, pacing the short loop housing those who used to be his teammates, his friends. “Would anyone like to tell me exactly _where_ Cap and his loose cannon have gone off to?”

He gets silence in return, which doesn’t seem to dampen his mood, if the cocky grin on his face is any indication. “No takers? I could talk to the boys upstairs, see if they would be willing to… lessen the sentence, somewhat.”

Clint really, _really_ wants to punch him. Stark’s just lucky that there’s several inches of reinforced plexiglass between them. 

Unsurprisingly, no one takes him up on his offer, so he continues his slow walk around the small platform. “No? I’m shocked. One would think you had better things to go back to than a jail cell.”

He’s stopped in front of Clint’s cell, and it’s all Clint can do to keep himself seated on the hard metal surface that serves as his bed, seething. “Fuck you, Stark.”

“Oh, jeeze. What language. You think your Captain would have trained his dogs a bit better than that.”

Clint would give up pizza for life if only he could get the chance to wipe that smug grin off Stark’s face. 

“But maybe he didn’t bother training the ones that were disposable.”

Pizza _and_ coffee.

Clint clenches his fists and focuses his attention on the pain of his nails biting half-moons into his skin. He can see Stark from the corner of his eyes, the hands tucked carelessly into the pockets of his suit pants, his right one emerging as he moves to tap on the glass of Clint’s cell.

Clint doesn’t quite manage to hide his flinch.

“I know. Quite the sight, isn’t it?” Stark holds up the hand, sleek and black and _alien_ perched at the end of his wrist. He wriggles the joints, demonstrates the movement, and Clint feels sick to his stomach. “Not nearly as nice as the armor, but it gets the job done.”

“You’ve fucking lost it,” Clint snarls, pulling his gaze away from that monstrosity and focusing on a fleck of dirt on the floor of his cell. Maybe if he stares at it long enough, he can teach himself telekinesis and get the fuck out of here.

“No, that’s where you’re wrong, Hawkeye.” Even though he’s not looking, Clint can hear the grin in the tone of Stark’s voice. “I’ve finally found it.” 

There’s a quiet that settles among them then, heavy and solid. Clint can see, from the corner of his eye, Stark pull his phone from his pocket. Hears him make some kind of pleased noise before he waves his arms to the room at large. “Well. It’s been fun. I’ll be sure to drop by every six months, you know, check in. Catch up.”

Clint keeps his eyes on the floor, narrowed. His fingernails bite into his flesh so hard he’s sure they’ll break skin soon. He doesn’t look up, not even when he hears the door slide back into place, when the quiet sounds of the others moving around starts up again.

_Fuck you, Stark._

\------

It’s cold.

His body is used to cold, used to the climate here, but Bucky can’t help feeling a chill from the moment the ramp on the quinjet lowers and sinks into a thick layer of snow. Steve is talking, saying something that he knows he should be listening to, but Bucky feels trapped inside his own head. Especially here. The bunker is barely visible through the storm, but he knows where it is, and the thought of it being out there, waiting for him, twists at his guts.

Bucky forces a tight-lipped smile and turns toward Steve.

“You ready?” Steve’s hand moves to his shoulder, the flesh one—he still shies away from the metal side—and squeezes. There’s a look on Steve’s face that says it’s not too late, that they can turn back and go somewhere else, leave this all in the dust.

But Bucky knows they can’t. That Steve can’t. Not when he knows what’s at stake here. One Winter Soldier was bad enough. The world doesn’t need to be exposed to a whole team of them.

“Yeah,” Bucky answers with a jerky nod toward the half-hidden building. “Let’s go.”

There are more levels than he remembers, more nooks and crannies that had been insignificant before, but could hold any level of danger now. They didn’t know if they’d been beaten here, if there was something worse than what they left behind waiting at the end.

He tries not to focus on that. Focuses instead on the feel of Steve at his side, the reflections off the interior of the shield as they make their way through the compound, taking care to check each and every corner.

If the others are already awake… Bucky could take out two, maybe three, before they overwhelmed him. Steve may be able to manage one or two, but it was a fight they wouldn’t win. 

Bucky hopes they’re still in cryo.

Each time Steve moves, Bucky is right there with him, a constant shadow. It’s familiar, in a way Bucky knows it should be, _knows_ he should remember, but… There are still gaps. Still feelings or sounds or smells that set him off on an entirely new strain of memory. And not all of them are pleasant. He had been able to manage them, when he didn’t have to worry about other interactions, when he didn’t have to worry about people knowing him, knowing how he _should_ be. 

He feels that now, with Steve. That Steve is seeing him as someone he isn’t. Not anymore.

He doesn’t know if he’ll ever be that person again. And he doesn’t know how to tell that to Steve. So he lets him believe that he remembers more than he does, that it’s not just a scattering of snippets, unorganized and jumbled together in a mess.

Steve stops, motioning with a series of hand gestures to the approaching room. There’s someone there, and Bucky verifies his weapon and stance before giving Steve a short nod. They move forward, as one, until Bucky freezes, Steve continuing for a few steps before stopping.

His mind forms the words, even though he knows they aren’t being spoken, and Bucky grits his jaw, keeps his weapon raised. 

“Hello, soldier. You’re right in time to join the welcome party.”

\------ 

Steve spares a glance back, where Bucky stands rooted to the spot, gaze focused in on the woman in front of them. She looks different without the frumpy sweater and the glasses, but it’s the same woman who had “interviewed” Bucky back at the the Joint Counter Terrorist Centre. The same woman who had turned everything from bad to worse in an instant. She’s holding something in her hand, some kind of remote, and Steve realizes that’s what Bucky is staring at, what he’s _been_ staring at with a twist to his mouth. 

“How nice of you to join us,” she motions to the room at large and Steve takes in the glass chambers he hadn’t made note of before. Nearly all of them are occupied though, for the moment at least, they aren’t moving. They might not be too late. If they can get that remote out of her hands… 

The woman clicks her tongue and shakes her head with a look that approximates sympathy. “I don’t think so, Captain. You take one more step and I hit this button. Then you go through them, to get to me.”

“You’re bluffing,” Steve says, jaw tight. “You wouldn’t have time to say those magic words of yours. They’d be useless to you.”

She smiles, and it sends a shudder through Steve’s spine, because it seems so innocuous, so mild, until she speaks. “I don’t think so. These soldiers are prepped and ready to go. They’ll protect me the second you make a move.”

Bucky sucks in a breath at his side and Steve slides his gaze over, brows furrowed in silent query. After a moment, Bucky purses his lips and shakes his head.

If that’s true, if they’re already on her side the second they wake up from those pods… 

It doesn’t look good.

“There is an option, however,” she says, soft smile still on her lips. “Come back into the fold, Soldier, and we’ll let the Captain live. For the time being.”

From the corner of his eye, Steve can see Bucky shifting forward, preparing to take a step.

“No deal,” Steve replies instantly, his hand going out to stop Bucky’s momentum.

Her brow lifts, though she doesn’t seem surprised by the response. “That’s a shame. I suppose I’ll just have to kill you, then. Maybe I’ll even get the Soldier to do it.”

Steve hears Bucky take a sharp breath, can feel the shudder that runs through Bucky’s chest, still held back with Steve’s gloved palm against him. Their options are limited here, but Steve is leaning toward rushing her, hoping it’ll distract her enough so they can get the remote out of her grasp. But they need to buy some time, force her to let down her guard, even for an instant.

“Why are you doing this?” Steve asks, swallowing around the lump of nerves in his throat and ignoring the incredulous look that he gets from Bucky. If he can keep her talking, maybe it will be enough. 

“Why Captain, are you trying to buy yourself some time?” She laughs, taking a moment to shake her head in disbelief. “It’s funny how you think that will work. But really, there’s only one thing you need to know.” A smile engulfs her face, hard and brittle, twisting her features into something dark. “Hail Hydra.”

Her finger is about to depress the button, Steve can see it happening, is ready to toss his shield and hope for the best. It turns out, he doesn’t have to. 

The roof collapses, scattering brick and dust overhead. It provides just enough time for Steve to loose his shield, hitting the woman’s wrist and forcing her to drop the remote with a screech. Bucky rushes forward and kicks it out of the way, raising his fist to take her down.

His left fist.

“Bucky, don’t!” Steve shouts, catching his shield as it returns to him. Bucky pauses, just long enough for him to pull a frown at Steve, for the woman to take a step back. Steve’s so focused on keeping Bucky from making a decision he’ll regret, from doing something he can’t take back, that he doesn’t see the flash of red and gold until it’s colliding with Bucky and sending him sliding back into the nearest wall. 

A cloud of dust fills the room and Steve coughs to clear his lungs of the stuff. The woman is gone, but that doesn’t matter, because he can see Bucky struggling, throat pinned beneath a red and gold gauntlet. Metal and flesh fingers alike scrabble against the armor, but Steve knows for a fact that none of the latches are within reach.

“Tony!” Steve shouts, preparing to throw the shield if he needs to. “Stand. Down.”

The Iron Man helmet turns toward him, eyes an icy glow. “Back off, Steve. This isn’t your fight.”

Steve takes a breath, grits his teeth, and catches Bucky’s frantic gaze. “The Hell it isn’t.” Steve doesn’t take the time to try and talk Tony down, to convince him that this isn’t a fight he should be fighting. He raises his arm, and the shield, and rears back to put enough force behind his throw, enough to knock even the armor back. It works, if only marginally, and the gauntlet releases Bucky’s throat enough for him to get away. Instead of backing off, however, Bucky throws a punch right in the center of the helmet, knocking the armor back a few inches more.

“Buck!” Steve snarls, hand up and gripping the shield as it loops back around to him. “Run. Now!”

They share a look, one that shows Steve too much of the Soldier and not enough of the soldier he knew, but Bucky does tear himself away from the armor, which is righting itself after the blow. They manage to get a few feet away before Steve hears it, the familiar, high-pitched whine. “DOWN!” 

Steve hits the ground, Bucky right beside him, as the heat from the repulsor blast streams through the air just above them. 

_He’s not aiming to wound._

The realization hits Steve low in the gut, but he doesn’t have time to react as a metallic fist slams into the cement inches from where Bucky’s head was only moments before. They have to move fast, have to take Iron Man down before he incapacitates them, or worse. He didn’t think Tony would resort to that kind of thing, but he can see that Iron Man’s movements are sloppier, not as tightly controlled as they normally are. 

He’s running on rage.

Steve and Bucky share a look across the wreck of a room, and that’s all they need to start a rhythm, a perfectly choreographed dance that they’ve carried out before, decades ago. They take turns running distraction, dodging repulsor blasts and ducking behind ruined panels and circuitry. Steve lofts the shield to Bucky, watching it ricochet off Iron Man’s chestplate before returning to Steve’s hand as easily as though he’d thrown it himself. 

“Tony, stop!” Steve tries again, his pulse racing in his ears, drowning out the sounds of the building collapsing around them. 

“Not until he’s down, Steve. You don’t know what he’s done!” The suit’s voice sounds odd here, echoing off concrete walls and reverberating through the air. “Do you remember, Barnes? December 16th, 1991?” 

Bucky barely dodges the next blast. Steve can hear him hiss in pain, watches as Bucky cradles his flesh arm near to his chest as he rounds another corner. Steve circles back on Iron Man again, throws the shield to get his attention, to get his focus away from Bucky. “Stop!”

“He killed them!” 

“Tony, please. Stop this.” Steve brings up the shield to block the next blast, aimed just shy of his left calf.

“He fucking _killed_ them!”

“I know!” 

Steve can hear the echo of his voice come back to him in the room, muffled through the particles in the air, but still there. The Iron Man armor is still, gaze focused directly on Steve, but Tony is silent. “I know, Tony…” Steve whispers, swallowing around the lump in his throat. “I know, but it wasn’t him. It wasn’t his fa–”

Steve doesn’t have time to finish his sentence, barely has time to haul up the shield to absorb some of the blow before the armor is crashing into him, sending him skidding back, heels digging in gravel and dust. He reacts instinctively, pushing Iron Man back with the shield, digging his shoulder under the edge of it and buckling down to get enough force behind the movement. It doesn’t send him far, but far enough that Steve can rear back and sling the shield, catching it quick and tossing it immediately to Bucky, who appears over Iron Man’s shoulder as though summoned. 

They fight in tandem, both using their speed and the shield to keep Iron Man down, as much as possible. Tony’s stronger, in the armor, but he’s sloppy, fueled by anger. They have the upper hand.

Until they don’t.

Bucky goes down, his face a pale facade, eyes wide with shock as they turn to the stump that used to be his left arm. Steve doesn’t know how much feeling was in that thing, but from the way Bucky’s eyes roll back in his head as his knees give out under him, he’s betting it was a lot. Before he can even process what just happened, Steve makes out the sight of Tony raising the gauntlet again, from where they’d managed to get him to the ground. He’s aiming it right at Bucky.

Steve sees red.

The next few moments pass in a blur, the scream of metal against metal becoming background noise in his ears. When focus comes back to him, Steve feels sick.

The chestplate is collapsed beneath the edge of Steve’s shield, arc reactor sputtering out a weak flicker of light before going dim. Steve’s hands are shaking, too afraid to pull the shield from its resting place, so they go to the faceplate, to the catches he knows are along the edge. “Tony…” he whispers, his voice a quiet tremor in the hollow room.

The armor is empty. Steve feels a guilty wave of relief crash over him, until the armor pipes up again, voice modulators still in working order.

“Well, I guess I see where you stand.”

“Tony, I…” Steve can’t breathe. Is breathing too much, too fast. It hurts his chest.

“Good to know you’d be prepared to kill me for him.” Tony’s voice is flat, echoing from somewhere within the empty helmet.

“I didn’t…” Steve doesn’t know what to say. He had, for all intents and purposes, been attacking with the aim to at least seriously injure. He couldn’t deny that.

“I’m sending the legion. You’re not getting out of this one, Cap. Not until I see Barnes dead or rotting in a cell. You stay put, I’ll be lenient. You leave…” There’s a pause and Steve can almost see Tony hesitating, cocking his head slightly to the left like he does when he thinks he’s being particularly coy. “Well.”

Steve can’t stay. He can’t. If he stays and they take Bucky it’s all over. So he hefts the shield out of the remains of the armor’s chestplate, moves to haul Bucky off the concrete floor. 

“You’ll regret this, Steve.” Tony’s voice is dying. The arc reactor must be giving out.

“Goodbye, Tony.”

\------

The uniform is a bit much, but he’d talked them out of a matching eyepatch so he’d take his wins where he could get them. Tony leans back in his chair, leafing through yet another file that made its way onto his desk—most likely because someone couldn’t figure out where exactly it _should_ go. He sifts through for any information that might prove useful before tossing it to the “out” tray with a sigh.

Another false sighting. He’s starting to get tired of them.

It had been months since the fight in Serbia, since both the woman who claimed to be a new seed of Hydra—or at least, she had done so in the media during the weeks following the destruction of the bunker—and the two super soldiers had gone missing. Tony had been busy, re-building a new version of SHIELD—better, stronger than its predecessor. He had the means, the networks already in place to get it up and running much faster than expected. Part of him missed the Avengers, missed the camaraderie like an ache, but it was gone. The group disbanded, lost without their leader, and Tony couldn’t blame them. 

After all, half their former teammates were still held in the The Raft. 

Tony flicks through a few pages on his desk, brow furrowing. There’s a small mailing parcel in his incoming basket, half-buried under three files likely just as useless as the one he tossed aside. Tony frowns and tugs the parcel toward himself. There’s no mailing address on the front, just the generic address for the tower in neat, even printing. It wouldn’t have made it to his desk without going through several scans first, but, just to be safe. “Friday?”

“The contents of the package have been verified,” Friday’s voice chimes from above him, and though that doesn’t do much to quell the wave of unease, he nods, slices the edge open with a letter opener he keeps in his desk. It was a gift, probably from the mayor of some city or another. Or some politician looking for pull. Tony didn’t keep track.

He dumps the contents of the packet onto his desk and his frown deepens. A neatly-folded letter and a burner phone. On the fold of the letter, in a familiar script, it reads only “Tony.” His pulse rockets and his flesh hand clenches into a fist on the mahogany surface. 

Tony isn’t sure how long he stares at the folded bit of paper and innocuous chunk of plastic in front of him. It feels like hours, but it can’t have been more than a minute before he hears the quiet knock at his door.

“Director Stark?”

“One moment,” he calls out, fingers tracing the surface of his desk until a number pad glows on the surface. He keys in a code and slides open his desk drawer. The few objects inside rattle around—an original version of the arc reactor, a few tools, a sketch from a lifetime ago. Tony drags his gloved palm across the desk, sweeping the letter and clunky phone into the drawer before slamming it all shut again, waiting for the subtle click of the locking mechanism falling into place. He takes a breath, adjusts his gloves to ensure the prosthetic is covered, and closes the scattering of projections around him with a wave of his hand. The lighting in the room feels strange without the subtle blue glow, but Tony knows it makes people feel uneasy, like seeing the inner workings of his mind.

He turns to the door, mentally preparing himself for the meeting with whatever bigwig it is this time, and clears his mind of blue eyes and blond hair with another heavy sigh. Later, when he sheds this persona and slips back into being Tony Stark—billionaire, playboy, philanthropist—he can think about what the letter means. He won’t read it. Not yet. He’s not ready to open that can of worms, certainly not ready to even think about forgiving Steve. He doesn’t know if he will ever forgive Steve. He chose his side. And Tony chose this. Peace, or as close as they were going to get.

“Okay,” Tony calls out, adjusting his the sleeves of his dark uniform one final time. “Let them in.”


End file.
